


Vinny is not a charity case

by youcouldmakealife



Series: Vinny gets a life [30]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 03:44:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5896882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas leans forward to kiss Anton’s cheek before he can second guess himself. His heart’s beating too fast, even if it’s the chaste sort Anton’s mother lays on Thomas, Thomas’ mother lays on Anton. Familial. Adopted. “You’re very sweet,” he says.</p><p>Anton’s looking at him with an expression Thomas can’t even begin to figure out. “No I’m not,” he says, finally.</p><p>Thomas can’t really argue that, honestly. “You’re very sweet to me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vinny is not a charity case

They take separate cars to Thomas’ place. Anton gets there first, even though he’s only been there the one time, because Thomas always drives more cautiously than him. He’s sitting on the railing of the porch when Thomas gets out of the car, shivering a little.

“Where’s your coat?” Thomas asks, once he’s close enough he can say it quietly. Most of the lights are out in the houses around them, and he wants to be neighbourly.

“I’m Russian,” Anton says, and smacks Thomas’ shoulder when he sees Thomas mouthing it along with him. Thomas is reminded of Denisovich’s complaint: Anton’s always American until they’re talking about the cold. “If you didn’t take so long I wouldn’t have gotten cold.”

“Sorry,” Thomas says. He’s in just a suit jacket himself, because it was warm when he left, but at night the cold is biting. It’s supposed to be spring, but it only feels like it when the sun’s up. “Think it’ll snow tonight?”

“Hm?” Anton asks, like he wasn’t listening.

“Never mind,” Thomas says, and unlocks the door. Reminds himself he needs to make spare keys. To give Anton a spare key.

Anton looks around Thomas’ place, first the hallway, much the same as it was except for the mat where they kick their shoes off, all of Thomas’ shoes in a neat line. The toe of Anton’s dress shoe sits on top of one of Thomas’ winter boots. They’ll go away soon, but not yet, because Thomas is always worried the moment he puts them away there will be a storm, and it’s not like that’s unheard of in April, or even that weird. The bathroom next, the kitchen, the living room. Thomas doesn’t think Anton’s looking around like he did before, critical, hoping for things to hate. He hopes not, at least.

“Looks good, Vin,” Anton says. “Is that our — is that the couch that’s at —” He stumbles over the sentence a little, doesn’t finish. Thomas understands. It’s the same couch they picked for Anton’s place, black instead of brown, but describing it is hard. Their couch? It isn’t. Though Thomas guesses it _is_ now, since they each have one. At their place, or at Anton’s? Every language they speak, the one they share, it has possessives, and it’s hard to string a sentence together when you’re not sure who possesses what anymore.

“I liked it,” Thomas says. “Is that okay?”

“Of course,” Anton says. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Thomas doesn’t know how to answer that. “Want something to drink?” he asks instead.

“Sure,” Anton says.

“Booze or water?” Thomas says. “I mean, or milk, or I have some juice and some Gatorade—”

“Booze is good, Vin,” Anton thankfully interrupts before Thomas also lists the energy drinks and the diet pop. His first grocery trip ended up involving half a cart of beverages. “We’re celebrating, right?”

“Right,” Thomas says, and goes to grab a bottle of wine and Anton’s gross stuff, some glasses.

“You got me Fernet Branca?” Anton asks when Thomas returns, looking stunned, enough so that Thomas decides he’s a little offended.

He knows the ‘correct’ answer to that, a ‘I didn’t want you to drink all my wine’ or ‘it was on sale’, even if liquor sales never take more than a buck or two off, and it never goes on sale anyway. And when he went to the nearest SAQ to his place they told him they were out of stock, because apparently people other than Anton actually drink the stuff, so Thomas had to drive to another one ten minutes away. 

If he was Anton, he’d probably brush it off with some flippant comment. Thomas doesn’t understand why Anton and so many other guys he knows seem to be embarrassed, even defensive, about every thoughtful or kind thing they do, like it’s mortifying to be caught caring. His mom always says the fact he cares so much is the very best thing about him. Even when caring sucks, Thomas is inclined to agree.

“I don’t like it, but you do,” Thomas says simply.

Anton smiles, a little lopsided, and pours himself a measure of fernet while Thomas pours himself a glass of wine, sniffing at it suspiciously, because he doesn’t remember if this is the one that tastes weird and acidic until it gets some air. He takes a cautious sip. Still good.

“You’re supposed to wait until we do a toast,” Anton complains, then looks at the bottle. “Oh, is that the gross wine?”

“Apparently not,” Thomas says. “Okay. So. Toast. To making the playoffs again.”

Anton raises his glass. “And,” Thomas says, and Anton gives him a longsuffering look but lowers his arm, “to you kicking ass all season and probably kicking ass in the playoffs.”

“ _Probably_?” Anton asks, fake mad, and Thomas cups a hand protectively in front of his glass of wine, scoots away from him on the couch. 

“Don’t, it’s a new shirt,” Thomas says.

“It’s horrible,” Anton says. “Vin, it’s got flower things.”

“It’s paisley,” Thomas says. “Heathen.”

“No wonder Gagnon played you tonight, you reminded him of himself when he played,” Anton says. “Which was probably in the seventies,” he adds helpfully, in case Thomas didn’t get his joke.

“Ha ha,” Thomas says. “Also, he played on your _dad’s_ team, Tony.”

“He was old and grumpy even then,” Anton mutters, and Thomas believes him.

“Okay, you can drink your gross stuff now,” Thomas says, lowering his arm since it looks like his wine is safe.

“Thanks,” Anton says, monotone. “You’re a great host.”

“I’m the best,” Thomas agrees, and gently clinks his wine glass against Anton’s lowball glass. Well, it’s not actually a lowball glass, it’s a juice glass, but they’re mostly the same. Whatever it’s supposed to be served in, Thomas probably doesn’t have it, and he’s seen Anton drink from the bottle before, so at least Thomas is offering a small step up.

Anton insists on continuing toasts. He then makes Thomas do all of them because he’s annoying. Thomas is so happy he’s here.

“Okay, your turn,” Thomas demands when Anton’s made him do like ten, and he’s had a glass and a half of wine. He doesn’t usually drink it that fast, and it’s sitting warm in him. He’s just started toasting teammates who’ve played well, and snuck in one for Fourns, because he also had a good season.

“To you kicking ass,” Anton says, and then, narrowing his eyes at Thomas. “Not probably. Definitely.”

There’s an unspoken ‘I gave a much nicer toast than you did’ in the challenging look in his eyes, and Thomas loves him for it.

“Next season too,” Thomas says. He puts his glass down to cross his fingers and show them to Anton. He’s not knocking on wood or anything, but fingers crossed for sure.

“What do you mean, next season,” Anton says. It’s not a question. More of a protest. They’ve had this conversation before.

“Tony, come on,” Thomas says.

“No, _you_ come on,” Anton retorts.

“I’m done for the season,” Thomas says. “Baseball hat time for me.”

“You don’t know that,” Anton says, frowning. He’s always frowning, now, at least around Thomas. He knows other people say Anton frowns all the time, but Thomas had to take their word for it, because when Thomas was around he smiled as much as anyone else, though Thomas would allow that his scowls were more than typically ferocious and that certain people, like Carms, got nothing but a frown. Now, Thomas sees what they mean. “Connors could get hurt. Or suck.”

“Then _we’re_ done,” Thomas says.

Anton’s frown deepens. “Don’t say that,” he says. “Why do you always say that shit about yourself?”

Thomas shrugs. “Because it’s true,” he says. He’s a mediocre goaltender, for the NHL. He’s really good, he knows that, but the NHL is for the elite. Among the elite he’s mediocre at best, and he’s okay with that. He understands why Anton isn’t — his father has been inducted to the Hall of Fame, the elite among the elite, and Thomas thinks Anton will be too. But Thomas is always going to be a back-up in this league, no matter how hard he tries, and that’s okay. He’s in the freaking NHL, he can’t complain.

“It’s not,” Anton says. “You’re like — you’re so great, why do you think everyone else is great but think you aren’t?”

Thomas leans forward to kiss Anton’s cheek before he can second guess himself. His heart’s beating too fast, even if it’s the chaste sort Anton’s mother lays on Thomas, Thomas’ mother lays on Anton. Familial. Adopted. “You’re very sweet,” he says.

Anton’s looking at him with an expression Thomas can’t even begin to figure out. “No I’m not,” he says, finally.

Thomas can’t really argue that, honestly. “You’re very sweet to me,” he revises, heart still bird fast, and begins to pull back, put some distance between them.

Anton kisses him.

Thomas freezes. He doesn’t know how long he freezes for, a second, less, more, but it’s enough that Anton’s pulling back, a word already nudging past his lips, an apology, probably, or an excuse, before Thomas pulls him back in. He catches the edge of his mouth more than anything else, desperately off-centre. Anton’s fingers brush over his cheek, getting the angle right, before curling around the back of his neck, hot like a brand. Anton’s mouth tastes bitter, darkly herbal, and Thomas doesn’t like it but he wouldn’t pull away for anything.

He’s done this a few times before, kissed someone, even made out — it’s not hard or anything, though if you focus too much on what you’re supposed to do you end up freezing up entirely in Thomas’ experience. Before he’d always been — bored sounds mean, but it’s probably the best word for it. Now he’s shaking. Anton’s hand is shaking on the back of his neck, and Thomas doesn’t know if he’s feeling himself shake through Anton or if Anton’s shaking too.

Thomas’ hand rests on Anton’s chest, ended up there without him realising it, and even through his shirt he can feel Anton’s heart beating double time, as fast as Thomas’ is. Thomas wonders if he’s scared too. He’s too afraid to ask. He doesn’t know what he wants the answer to be. He doesn’t want to pull away to ask, in case Anton thinks Thomas wants to end this. He doesn’t.

Anton’s hand slides down his side, anchored on his hip, anchoring, before he takes it away, palm pressing against the fly of Thomas’ pants. Thomas pulls back until his back hits the arm of the couch and he can’t move any further. He tucks his knees up to his chest because that’s the only way he can increase the distance between them without standing up, backing away.

“I thought you—” Anton says.

“I don’t want—” Thomas says, can’t finish the sentence, gesturing loosely instead.

There’s a look on Anton’s face before he goes expressionless, blink and you’d miss it, of utter relief. Thomas saw it, though. Thomas saw it, and Thomas knows Anton, and the picture is too easy to put together, resolves itself too easily into something that makes him feel ill.

“What the fuck,” he says. “What, was this like ‘hey, I feel sorry for Vinny and I think I know what he wants, so I’m just going to _humour_ him’?” His voice cracks, and he’d be embarrassed, usually, but right now he’s just furious.

“That’s not—” Anton starts.

“Get out,” Thomas says quietly.

“Tommy—” Anton says.

“Get the fuck out, Anton,” Thomas says, still quiet. His voice wavers over the words, unsure, but he’ll pretend it didn’t.

Anton takes him seriously. Or maybe not, maybe he’s never taken Thomas seriously in his life, maybe he’s always been humouring him and Thomas has never realised. But the important thing is that right now Thomas needs him to leave, and that’s what he does.

**Author's Note:**

> [Exciting things are happening on tumblr again!](http://youcouldmakealife.tumblr.com)
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> This is NOT the final part, please do not kill me, that would solve nothing, because then this WOULD be the final part. /perfect logic


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